


Old Money

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: A Solid Alibi, Bank heists, Gen, Old Criminals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:56:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24570430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: Neal is still under Peter’s suspicious scrutiny even a year after their partnership has begun. The young con artist with a tracking anklet can’t engineer any audacious and cunning capers, but Mozzie can. Season 1.
Relationships: Neal Caffrey & Mozzie, Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Comments: 3
Kudos: 44





	Old Money

Neal and Mozzie were engaged in a game of chess in Neal’s loft. Neal’s concentration is continually being interrupted by the incessant deep sighs coming from his bald opponent. “Moz, what’s with all this huffing and looking bored?” Neal finally has to ask. “Am I that off my game but you’re just too polite to say anything?”

Mozzie frowns and shrugs. “It’s not you, mon frère,” he hastily reassures his friend. “It’s just that my life is really too staid right now. With you tied to the Feds during this last year, it’s put the kibosh on anything even remotely exciting and daring.”

“You mean anything exciting, daring, and illegal,” Neal replies. “Well, sorry about that, but it’s not exactly a fun party for me either.”

“I know, I know,” Mozzie commiserates. “But I ache for the good old days when we were deviously clever and outwitting the cops with every endeavor. We were the bomb when it pertained to capers, and we had the admiration of every other renegade who operated outside the law. Now, we’re reaching a point where we’re going to be just a footnote in the criminal annuls. Three more years of this tedium is a long time to wait to get the band back together.”

“You know I would help drag you out of the doldrums if I could,” Neal says sincerely.

“Well, maybe I can come up with something that you can do from the sidelines, since your every move is common knowledge for anyone who cares to pull up your tracking data,” Mozzie replies bitterly.

“Whatever you need,” Neal promises as he watches his friend abandon their game and meander out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~

A week later, Mozzie is back looking a bit more upbeat. Gone is the hangdog expression and it has been replaced by a sly, almost vulpine, look. Neal wonders where the deviousness is coming from, and it didn’t take much coaxing for Mozzie to tell all.

“As you know, my friend, I am continually on the lookout for new and reclusive places to hang my hat in times of dire emergencies. My most recent explorations have led me underground—literally. New York’s 115-year old subway system consists of many layers, and a great many stops have long been abandoned and even forgotten by those not intrepid enough to go spelunking for them.”

“Okaay,” Neal drawls. “I take it there’s more to this story than just the glamor of being this century’s Indiana Jones.”

Mozzie ignores the sarcasm. “First let me give you a little geographical as well as historical lesson,” he replies pedantically. “There is an abandoned subway spur right under Central Park that eventually became part of the Second Avenue system. In the past, it served as a VIP entrance to one of New York’s most luxurious hotels. Next, let me clue you in on Track 21. It has a special platform constructed directly beneath the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, which was pretty convenient for old celebrities and other people of note who wanted to keep a low profile while they were in town. According to what I unearthed, even President Franklin D. Roosevelt used that entrance to conceal his polio paralysis from the public eye. The street-level freight elevator entrance is still located at 101 East 49th Street. And, just as a bit of trivia, there’s an abandoned terminal very close to where your nemesis goes home to polish his shiny Federal credentials every night. It’s the Myrtle Avenue Station that once connected Manhattan and Brooklyn. It closed down in 1956 when a new platform was constructed right on Dekalb Avenue.”

“Please don’t tell me that you plan to terrorize Peter or Elizabeth with impromptu visits when you rise up out of the ground like the walking dead,” Neal pleads.

“Now that would be gauche,” Mozzie answers with a snort. “Besides, I like Mrs. Suit.”

Neal sighs. “Okay, now that we have that little worrisome tidbit out of the way, I’m still not seeing any kind of endgame, Moz,” Neal admits.

“Think bigger picture, mon frère,” Mozzie says enticingly. “Next week is the 4th of July and visitors will be flocking to the Big Apple in droves. Big time celebrities will be on hand to perform on stage or offer commentary until the huge Macy’s fireworks extravaganza starts over the East River. That little pyrotechnic display will last at least thirty minutes—more than enough time for what I’m thinking.”

“Which is?” Neal is almost afraid to ask, although Mozzie’s enthusiasm is becoming contagious.

“A series of heists that may not really be heists,” Mozzie replies tantalizingly.

“Not helpful, Moz,” Neal says tersely.

“What I’m saying is quite simple but genius in nature. During the evening of the upcoming holiday, there will be a sort of controlled chaos on the streets of Manhattan, the hotels will be fully booked, and the boys in blue will be out on foot in mass to keep order and an eye peeled for anyone with an act of extremist mayhem on their minds. So, that is the opportune time to strike. I have done all the tedious recon, made explicit measurements, and even employed a Doppler to make sure that X marks the spot.”

“And the spot is?” Neal asks as he holds his breath.

“Why, the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, of course,” Mozzie says smugly.

“Still in the dark here, Moz,” Neal complains.

“Okay, I’ve titillated you long enough,” Mozzie admits, “so let me be more specific. I intend to set off a really big blast right under that hotel’s lobby during the fireworks display, and that controlled explosion will most assuredly cause a bit of pandemonium. It won’t actually do any real damage, but, undoubtedly, hotel guests will be streaming out onto the streets in a panic, and the call will go out to all the police foot soldiers to head to the site of what was most likely a terrorist act.”

“So, what’s the point of this bit of amateur anarchy?” Neal asks because he is still confused.

“Oh, it’s just one of many points,” Mozzie simpers. “Simultaneously, there will be other coordinated blasts occurring under a dozen banks in Manhattan as far down as Canal Street on the Lower East Side. The explosions won’t actually penetrate upwards as far as ground level, but they’ll provide a lot of bang for the buck.”

“Since you can’t be in more than one place at a time unless you’re into astral projection, did you rig them all on a timer or are you planning to detonate them remotely?” is Neal’s next question.

“I may have amassed a crew to assist me in this endeavor,” Mozzie admits.

“A crew?” Neal asks suspiciously.

“Maybe this should be on a need to know basis,” the little man quickly backpedals.

“Moz, you know I’m like a vault and would never divulge anything about your rather arcane activities.”

“But you may try to talk me out of it,” Mozzie retorts. “Look, Neal, we’ve always done our thing together and I’ve never desired to venture out on my own. Maybe now that I have to fly solo, you’ll worry that I’m not slick enough to get the job done.”

“Of course, I’ll worry because you’re my friend. Now, you just said that you won’t be alone and that you had a crew. Anybody I know?” Neal insists.

“Perhaps,” Mozzie shrugs and looks squirrelly.

“Out with it, Moz,” Neal pushes.

“Well, I may have been talking to June and she may have mentioned that some of the old timers from Byron’s glory days could be up for a little adventure.”

“So, are we talking a geriatric brigade of old criminals from years gone by?” Neal groans.

“Hey, those dudes are still sharp and they could probably teach you a thing or two,” Mozzie chides. “Besides, they’re as bored as me after being put out to pasture. The old geezers still have game, and it’s hard for them to acclimate to a dull life after having lived an adventurous one. They were only too glad to come onboard.”

“And do what, exactly, Moz? Set off detonations under banks that they can’t rob?”

“They are what I would call red herrings to distract from the real heist,” Mozzie simpers.

“So, exactly what’s on the agenda, Moz,” Neal insists. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Well, Chase Bank just happens to be located on Park Avenue, not very far from the besieged hotel. Like any other banking institution, it handles actual currency on a day to day basis because not all transactions are electronic. Now, the average lifespan for a bill of any denomination is about five years, and banks are constantly culling out worn or distressed paper notes to return to the Treasury. The regional banks amass a million or so, then they pass them on to the Federal Reserve. When they are validated, the financial institution gets a check in return. In our city, a branch of the New York Federal Reserve then transfers the old currency to the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, which receives approximately 25,000 mutilated redemption claims annually. Each bill is shredded and sent to waste energy facilities for disposal. They do this to the tune of billions per year.”

“I think I’m beginning to get the picture,” Neal muses. “At the time of the hotel explosion, you and your crew simultaneously use a bigger blast to penetrate the floor of Chase Bank. It may not even be distinguishable as two separate occurrences. While first responders are concentrating on the panicked chaos at the Waldorf Astoria as well as other sites throughout the city, you break into Chase’s vault, leave the banded stacks of new money and avail yourself of the accumulated old cash. It’s most likely a jumble of various denomination bills with an assortment of serial numbers that the Feds haven’t entered into the system yet. Pretty neat and tidy,” Neal marvels.

“Thank you,” Mozzie grins as he bows slightly at the waist.

“Are you sure your new playmates are up to the task,” Neal then asks.

Mozzie rolls his eyes. “I’ll have you know that my right hand accomplice used to go by the handle ‘Yegg Man.’ He was the best safecracker in Harlem during his days in the sun. He actually taught seminars to other convicts while he was incarcerated for a time in the big house. Another associate has a grandson who owns an ice cream truck. The old gent is going to borrow it to use as our getaway vehicle. We’ll shove the loot in the freezer compartments under gallons of Rocky Road, Chocolate Mint Chip, and Peanut Butter Fudge. It will give new meaning to the phrase ‘cold, hard cash’. Other members of the crew will simply mingle with curious pedestrians on the street after the far-flung explosions occur all over the city. Do you really think the cops are going to stop and question decrepit old men ambling along with tripod canes, hearing aids, and innocent little ice cream cones in their hands?”

“I have to admit, it sounds doable, Moz. I’m just sorry I have to sit this one out,” Neal says dolefully.

“Oh, but you do get to play your part, mon frère,” Mozzie reassures his young friend, “and it’s a role that you should relish. You get to yank your jailer’s chain.”

“I’m all ears, Moz,” Neal grins.

Mozzie returns the smile. “I want you sitting right in the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria when our fireworks start. The Suit will be on you like white on rice, but he won’t be able to prove a thing. In fact, he will be your alibi.”

“It would be fun to wind Peter up,” Neal smirks in anticipation.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal was right where Mozzie wanted him at exactly 9:05 pm on the 4th of July. He was in the lobby bar of the Waldorf Astoria with a Scotch in his hand when he felt the tremendous rumble under the marble tiles at his feet. Chandeliers swayed ominously and some glassware actually tumbled off the shelves behind the bar and crashed to the floor. Other patrons looked stunned for a minute before hastily making their way outside. They knew this was no earthquake, and visions of the terrorist bombings that had occurred at the Boston Marathon and the Federal Building in Oklahoma City had them panicking. It wasn’t long before the wail of sirens competed with the pyrotechnic explosions across the river. Neal melted into the crowd and never looked back. He joined a freaked mass of humanity that stood on the street in fearful confusion. Eventually, like a salmon swimming upstream, he made his way to Central Park and camped out on a bench. It didn’t take long for Peter to run him down. Even though Federal agents and city law enforcement officers were spread thin fanning across all of Manhattan, Peter knew in his gut that Neal was somehow involved.

“I checked your tracking app, Neal,” Peter seethed, “and imagine my surprise when it had you exactly where an explosion took place less than an hour ago. What in the hell did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything, Peter,” Neal said in truthful denial.

“I’m not buying it was just a coincidence, Buddy. You better come clean right now and tell me why you were there,” Neal’s handler demanded.

“If you insist on being privy to my personal life, Peter, I’ll just tell you that perhaps I could have been meeting someone for a social drink when all that bruhaha started. Of course, I never got to connect with her after the explosion, and it was impossible to get a cab home thanks to the gridlock of emergency vehicles. So, I came up here to wait it out.”

“Who were you meeting?” Peter wanted to know. “Was it Kate?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Neal said with a bit of an attitude.

“Everything about you is my business,” Peter snarled. He was about to escalate the argument when his phone trilled in his pocket. He listened intently and his face turned even more dour. Finally, he ended the call with an abrupt, “I’m on my way.”

“Problem?” Neal asked innocently.

“I’ll deal with you later, Buddy,” Peter said ominously. “Right now you’re getting in my car and I’m dropping you off at June’s house.”

“Do you have someplace you need to be?” Neal prodded.

“Shut up, Caffrey!” was the angry response.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal felt a bit guilty accepting a very generous cut from Mozzie’s heist. “I don’t deserve this, Moz. I was sitting on the sidelines while you and your old timers did the heavy lifting.”

“It’s only money, Neal,” Mozzie says breezily. “It was never really about personal gain. It was more of an exercise to keep me from getting rusty.”

“You’re a good friend,” Neal smiles.

The next day, Neal insisted on taking Peter out for a very expensive lunch. He told his handler that he harbored no ill will for the suspicious, knee-jerk assumptions the night before. It was all moot now since his tracking data placed him squarely in Central Park with Peter during the time that Chase Bank’s vault was being raided. When the check was delivered to the table, Neal made a show of pulling out Byron's old money clip and extracting a well-worn Franklin from the thick wad of cash. Peter's eyes narrowed as he looked at the wrinkled and tattered $100 bill. When he met Neal's eyes, he detected a bit of smug satisfaction, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.


End file.
